


The Fall

by colonel_bastard



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Loyalty, Sacrifice, Shame, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every heroic sacrifice requires bloodshed and battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this at one in the morning, when I saw a man coming to the defense of his drunken mate. Surely, greater love hath no man than this.

-

-

-

Roy doesn’t walk out of the bar so much as fly. Against Havoc’s furious protests, the bartender seizes Mustang by the scruff of his overcoat, hauls him bodily away from the puddle of newly-created broken glass, and slings him out the front door into the street, the colonel howling and cursing the whole way. Havoc shoves past the bartender with a vicious scowl, ignoring the man’s parting mutter of, “Fucking pig, what a waste of space.” 

Mustang has slipped around the corner and braced himself against the nearest wall, too drunk to stand without support. 

“Son of a bitch,” he hisses, rubbing his shoulder. “Cutting me off after two fucking drinks.”

Havoc does not point out that they’ve been to several other bars already, and that Roy was decidedly wobbly by the time they got to this one. Two more drinks was two drinks too many, and the bartender was certainly within his rights to deny the third. It was certainly not within Mustang’s rights to hurl his empty glass to the floor, filling the air with the sound of shattering and his own hoarse, filthy shouts of outrage. Havoc was just coming back from a piss, and the crowd pulled in tight before he could get to his commanding officer. He could only call angrily, “ _Hey! Hey, don’t you touch him!_ ” as the bartender stormed out from behind the counter and manhandled Roy all the way to the door. 

It’s been a rough week with one silver lining: thanks to an extended absence from Central, their transfer back has effectively rendered them strangers to pretty much everyone outside of Headquarters. Exhausted by the move and the subsequent reorganizing and reevaluating, Roy badly needed a break, and Havoc didn’t mind keeping an eye on him for a night off the beaten path. Tonight, he could walk into any bar he liked and not be instantly recognized as the Flame Alchemist. Those days are just around the corner, but they’re not quite here yet. 

“Huhhhh,” Roy groans, one hand slapped over his eyes. “Ah, hell. Shit.” 

He rolls up off his shoulders, turns to the wall, and vomits out those last two drinks in a big, messy splash. Havoc ambles over dutifully and rubs his back with one hand, the other digging in his pocket for a cigarette. It’s getting to be that time of the night when he hauls Roy back to his apartment and dumps him in bed. As soon as Mustang is finished puking, he’ll try to go to one more bar, let himself get talked out of it, and allow Havoc to bring him home. 

Another uniformed soldier appears at the mouth of the alley and gives them a hard stare. Havoc gives a quick wave and a comradely shrug, gesturing at Roy with a crooked smile: _This guy, huh?_ To his surprise, the other man does not continue on, but instead marches right up to them, his stare turning into a sneer. 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he snaps at Mustang. 

“Fuck you,” Roy snarls, scrubbing at his mouth. 

“Come on, buddy,” Havoc says quickly. “It’s been a long night.”

“I can see that,” the intruder notes. “And I’ve just had a word with the bartender.”

“Fuck him,” Mustang mutters, retching as another wave of vomit chugs up through his mouth and onto the pavement. 

“You’re not from around here,” the stranger persists. 

“Just transferred back,” Havoc can’t get a read on this guy, and he doesn’t like it. “From East City.”

“That would explain it, I suppose,” he sniffs. “I hear that our men are in piss-poor condition out in the sticks.” 

“Now hold on just a second,” Roy barks, and he’s on his feet, lurching towards the stranger with his gloveless hand instinctively poised for a snap. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Barclay, and I am the officer on duty in this sector.” The breezy condescension is gone, replaced abruptly with cold severity. “I’ve received a call about military personnel behaving in a rowdy manner, and I can see now that they were generous in their description.” He jabs a finger at Roy, sweating and slumped with a shoulder to the wall. “You, soldier, are a disgrace.”

Mustang goes strangely pale, strange because his cheeks remain flushed red from the alcohol, giving the rest of his face a ghastly grey tint. His normally-sharp eyes are dull and flat, his proud mouth set in a crooked imitation of its usual firm line. Havoc hates to see him like this, but worse, he hates it when others see him like this. This Roy is the private one, the one only meant to be seen by those he trusts, those who will not use his condition against him. That’s why he prefers to drink at home, where Havoc can pull off his boots and turn him lengthwise on the couch so he can pass out in the privacy of his living room. This was a rare opportunity to go out under the shield of anonymity. Now, facing a fellow officer in this miserable state, Mustang shrinks away, mortified. 

“It’s— been a long night,” he mumbles, repeating Havoc’s words from moments ago. 

“That’s no excuse,” Barclay glares. “Do you have no respect for the uniform you’re wearing? Better men than you have given their lives for that uniform, boy. You dishonor their memory.”

Havoc winces, grabs hold of Roy’s arm as he staggers from the wall. Was he trying to run? Unlikely. Just trying to stand on his own two feet, to hold himself with at least a fraction of dignity— and he can’t even do that. Under his powerful hand, Havoc can feel him shaking. 

“Hey,” Mustang starts to raise his voice, his shame hiding under anger. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

“I don’t care if you’re a Brigadier General or a Buck Private,” Barclay announces, producing a notebook and pen. “I’m reporting you for drunk and disorderly conduct.”

The words drop like spent shells to the alley floor. The shaking stops— Mustang has gone completely still, like a dead thing. One great shudder passes up through his body, and Havoc thinks he’s about to vomit again, but it was a tremor of sheer emotional distress, his limbs going stiff in utter panic. As Barclay flips open his notebook and searches for a blank report sheet, each page turn scrapes Havoc’s nerves, worse than nails on a chalkboard.

“Come on, bud— _Sir_ —” he blurts desperately. “You don’t need to do that. Nobody got hurt.” 

But he already knows it won’t work. This guy’s pushing forty and still stuck chasing down rowdy soldiers on a Saturday night. He’s got something to prove, and he’s going to bust any balls that he can find a cause for. Roy is one hundred percent fucked. 

“Disgraceful,” Barclay mutters to himself, as he finds a clean sheet and notes the date. “Just transferred from East City, too. I’ll make sure the top brass at Headquarters hear about this. They’ll want to know what condition their men are coming back in.” 

“Oh, God,” Mustang whispers.

Even the flush is gone from his cheeks now, his face ashen. From the way his eyes are staring blindly into the middle distance, Havoc knows he can only see one thing right now: his political future, dripping down the drain with his whiskey-laced vomit. 

“All right,” the Lieutenant Colonel raises his eyes and his pen, ready for the death blow. “Name, rank, and serial number.” 

Roy stares, momentarily struck dumb. 

“What’s your _name_ , boy?” Barclay presses. 

Havoc looks down at his commanding officer, at his pale and sweat-streaked face, and his heart aches. He remembers, suddenly, startlingly, that Roy is wearing his overcoat. It covers his shoulder boards. It even covers the marks of honor on his chest. And before he can think, he speaks. 

“His name is Havoc, Sir,” says Havoc. “Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc.”

Mustang makes a horrible choking sound, his goggled eyes turning on his subordinate in panic and confusion. 

“No,” he gasps, his voice shrill, shocked. 

“Yes,” Havoc says firmly, refusing to meet his gaze. To Barclay, he continues, “That’s Jean, J-E-A-N.”

“No no no,” Roy moans, his hands twisting at Havoc’s sleeve. 

“Don’t try and keep it from him, just get it over with.” Catching Roy’s chin in his hand, Havoc tilts up his face and finally meets his eyes, and he says with quiet intensity, “ _It’s better this way._ ”

Mustang bites his lip, nods weakly, and lowers his gaze to the dirty ground. The scratches of Barclay’s pen sound like scuttling insects. Havoc shivers and realizes that he’s still got one hand locked in a death grip on Roy’s arm. He doesn’t let go. 

“And your serial number?” Barclay asks, his glare pointedly fixed on Mustang.

“It’s, uh...” Roy squirms, his drink-addled mind reaching for the number he’s seen a hundred times before. He just saw it a few days ago, when he wrote out all their transfer forms himself, a gesture that Havoc found to be especially generous and a sure sign that Mustang must consider him valuable. “It’s... eight-six-six...” 

He casts a frantic look at Havoc, who prompts, “Seven...”

“Seven... uh... aught-seven...”

Silence. Havoc prompts again, “Aught...”

And Mustang finishes in a rush, “Aught-five.” 

Havoc gives his arm a heavy squeeze and chuckles, “It’s aught-four, you drunk bastard.”

“I’m sorry,” Roy wheezes brokenly, covering his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” 

Barclay raises an eyebrow for confirmation, so Mustang gives a muddled cough and says hastily, “That’s right. Aught-four.”

When Barclay reads back the full number, both Mustang and Havoc answer, “Right.” 

The scratching of the pen resumes, somehow louder than before, amplified by the weight of the moment. Oddly enough, Havoc doesn’t feel angry. He actually feels rather detached, the way he’s felt in battle, when instinct takes over and his rational mind switches off. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t resent Roy for putting him in this situation. After all, what’s one drunk and disorderly report against a grunt like him? He was bound to get one sooner or later, it might as well be this one. It might as well be one that can mean something. 

He hopes, at least, that Mustang will never forget his serial number again.

Barclay reads aloud as he writes, the better to shame the subject of his report. 

“For conduct unbecoming a soldier of the Amestrian military,” he concludes. “The strictest punishment is recommended, the better to curb this slovenly behavior.” Once he slaps the notebook closed, he wags it in Mustang’s face. “I’ll be sure that this gets to your commanding officer. I’m urging him towards severe disciplinary action.”

Seeing an opportunity, Havoc shakes Roy and warns, “Oh, man, Havo, Colonel Mustang is gonna be pissed.” Then he turns to Barclay and says, “Our commanding officer, Sir. Colonel Mustang. He’s a great man, I mean, destined for greatness. I mean you might be hearing of him soon.”

“Well, then, I look forward to it.” With a scornful glance at Roy, Barclay drawls, “God knows that this military needs all the great men it can get.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Roy agrees weakly. 

Noting Havoc’s shoulder board, Barclay indicates him and says sternly to Mustang, “Take note of your fellow lieutenant, Havoc. Right now he’s a far greater soldier than you may ever hope to be. Study his example and perhaps we won’t have to meet like this again.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Roy repeats, his eyes squeezed shut in humiliation. 

As the air becomes saturated with it, the stink of vomit finally reaches their noses, and while Mustang cringes, Barclay makes a show of coughing and fanning the air. He tucks the notebook back in its place. The ordeal is complete. Now, for a parting shot, Barclay faces Mustang and delivers a crisp, perfect salute. Helplessly intoxicated, Roy does his best to answer, but the gesture is unavoidably sloppy. Barclay tuts in disappointment, and when Havoc answers with a perfect salute of his own, he gives a satisfied nod. 

“Get that man off the streets,” he instructs Havoc. “Spare us all the indignity of his condition.” 

“I’ll take care of him, Sir,” Havoc promises. 

\- - -

Mustang doesn’t say a word as Havoc walks him home, supporting most of his weight with the grip on his arm that has yet to be broken. They get up the stairs, Havoc fumbles in Roy’s pockets for the keys, and finally he manages to dump Mustang into his bed like he wanted to do an hour ago. 

As he sets to pulling off his boots, Roy whispers hoarsely, “Havoc, I’m...”

“Forget it, Sir,” the second lieutenant shrugs. Left boot off. “Pay me back when you’re the Fuhrer. Make me a member of your cabinet.” Right boot off, and Havoc allows himself to brush Mustang’s sweaty bangs from his face, giving him a lopsided grin. “Secretary of the Department of Tits Inspection.” 

Roy manages a weak chuckle in response. Havoc laughs, too, laughs a little harder than he should, trying to coax his colonel into a bigger smile. But although Mustang’s shoulders start to shake with emotion, his mouth suddenly twists into a grimace, and he crosses his arms over his face to hide himself. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Havoc hesitates. Part of him wants to give Roy a good shaking, to insist that he _meant_ it, that Mustang is _destined_ to rule this country and Havoc is privileged to serve him. Another part of him wants to sock him right in the face, tell him that he has no right to act like this, that he has to stop or Havoc won’t be able to follow him anymore (an empty threat— Havoc would follow him to hell, even if he knew they’d never make it out again). The last part of him just wants to pull Roy into his arms and hold him until he falls asleep. 

Stupidly, he pats Mustang’s elbow and assures him, “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He considers going home but in the end he just sleeps on the couch, wanting to be nearby in case Roy needs him. 

In the morning, they will stagger their departures so as to arrive at the office as separately as possible. Hawkeye will be waiting with the report in her hand, her eyes burning into Havoc's back as he slinks to his desk, the stern tone of her voice audible through the heavy wooden door of Mustang’s office. Breda and Fuery will pester him for details. They will receive none. Mustang will call him into the office and give him a stern lecture on appropriate behavior. Havoc will accept this lecture in silence. He will be told that the report is going on his permanent record. 

But first, he’ll be woken by Mustang crouching beside him, his grey eyes bright like a raven’s, his hand clasped tightly around Havoc’s dogtags, concealing them. 

In the stale air of dawn, he will whisper in Havoc’s ear, “Eight-six-six-seven-aught-seven-aught-four.”

And that will have to be enough. 

 

 

 

__________end.


End file.
